Angel watching over me
by annj
Summary: And who is watching the Angel? Secret Santa Fic for the CWESS and BlueEyedDemonLiz. wee!Sam, wee!Dean, John.


Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I'll give them back after playing.

Rating: none really

Summary: And who is watching the angel? Weechester

Spoiler: none

Wordcount: ~ 8900

A/N: Beta thanks goes to Laura aka mlebayre. Remaining mistakes are mine. I just couldn't resist *sheepish smile*.

A/N2: This is the Secret Santa Story for BlueEyedLiz. She wanted: "..._a Teenchesters (or Weechesters) story with some crazy Sam. A story where something happens (on a hunt maybe) that leaves Sam traumatised and his family try to help him. Bonus points if Sam gets taken away at some point and Dean/John fight to get to him. (They call it being 'sectioned' here in the UK when someone is held against their will under the mental health act) and of course, some limp or hurt Sam would be awesome...but not essential. The story can go as dark (or as chick-flick fluffy) as the writer would like."_

**Angel watching over me**

They had arrived in Douglas, Wyoming, two months ago, looking for a small apartment that'd be sufficient to get them over the winter months. After two days in a motel they found a sleazy one storey house, old and musty with a smell that made them crinkle their noses in disgust. Their landlord told them, the old lady that had rented the house before them had had 27 cats.

That explained a lot.

Though it didn't help the reek.

But nothing had been able to dampen little Sam's spirits.

School started on the fourth of September and he was excited and eager, his eyes shining with so much delight Dean was afraid his little brother would die of a heart attack before he even set foot into school on his very first day. And then, he came home every other day, telling them proudly what letter they had learned on this particular day.

"A is for apple."

His voice was chattering through the house and his father had to close the windows to stop the bitchy neighbours from complaining about the "disturbance".

"B is for bike."

John registered Sam in the local library and every day, after Dean picked him up from school, they visited the small facility one their way back.

"C is for cat."

Sam's enthusiasm both annoyed and amused Dean, who thought it was ridiculous to enjoy school. Also, his own new schoolmates were all pretty lame, playing football and hockey in the afternoon. Not to mention the classes were beyond boring.

"D is for dog."

On a Friday morning John said, he'd take Dean on a hunt. It was the K-day.

"K is for kid."

What L stood for, they never knew.

oOoOo

It was a good hunt. And it had been Dean's first.

He was unable to stop grinning. His face was frozen in a wide smirk, his knees still jittery with the fast receding adrenalin. His father's "Well done, son!" ringing in his ears, causing his chest to swell with pride.

The scarcely forested area around him was chirping and squeaking in joyful ecstasy and his fathers steps echoed close behind. The air was fresh and already biting, the winter coming closer every day. Impatiently, he picked up his pace, almost stumbling over a rock and he couldn't wait until he could tell Sam how he, Dean Winchester, had killed his first creature of the night. Of course, in his explanations the leprechaun would be 10ft high with claws and teeth, that were dripping with former victims' blood. And of course, he'd make it a good night story. Not reality. Never reality. Harsh reality didn't deserve to become acquainted with little, innocent Sammy.

Because Sammy was oblivious to the world of darkness. And if Dean (and his father) had a say in that, he'd stay oblivious for the next, say, 20 years. Sam's biggest problems should be the little boy from his music lessons, who had poked him in the back with a ruler.

The Impala was still parked near the road, far enough for 6-year old Sammy to be safe and close enough for Dean and his father to retreat fast if there was need to.

"Did you see me, Dad? I hit him right between the eyes!" Dean said excitedly and his father nodded again, the gesture slightly exhausted. Probably because Dean had asked him twice already. Next time, Dean decided, he'd take a camera.

"Yes Dean, I told you the first time: I've seen everything. And you did really well."

The balloon in Dean's chest gained volume, his grin width and his feet speed.

"Sammy!"

The car was close now. They could see its polished paint gleaming in the dim light of the moon. The weak indoor light still switched on and Dean could hear his father mumble. "I told him to turn it off. If the car battery fails, he'll be the one pushing the Impala back to Douglas."

"Sammy?" There was no shaggy head in the back of the car. Maybe his little brother had fallen asleep over the book he was trying to read? A Tale of Two Cities.

The boy was only in school for how long? A few weeks? Already trying to read a freaking Charles Dickens. Honestly! Sometimes Dean thought baby-Sammy had been switched in the hospital and somewhere out there was a cheeky six-year old who hated books as much as he did.

"Sammy?" Dean yelled again, his voice a strained mix of anxiety and anticipation.

But his brother didn't answer. Seconds later, he didn't even look up when Dean tore open the door. Instead he pressed his small frame deeper into the gap between the backrest and the bank, shivering, his eyes staring ahead without seeing anything. Without really seeing Dean. Without recognizing his big, awesome brother whose good night was turning to hell faster than he could say Hey, shorty!

"Sammy?"

oOoOo

There was one thing Dean didn't like about their new temporary home. It had too many rooms.

There were two on the ground floor, three more on the second. And every room on the second floor had one bed. Just one.

"I can't sleep", Sammy had complained on their first night after he was sent to "his" room two hours earlier. "It's so empty." His sleepy gaze had wandered to Dean, asking him without forming actual words. "Can I sleep in your bed?"

Their father had started a week long mission to get them to sleep in different rooms. Evidently without much success. Every morning John was met by the same view: Sam curled around his big brother's pillow while Dean was hanging halfway over the edge of his own bed.

"Hey shorty," Dean teased, trying for the umpteenth time to get Sam to talk. "We're home."

Shivering quietly, Sam's eyes were roaming restlessly around but not staying in one place for long.

After they had found him like this, they'd searched the area around the car, looking for anything suspicious. Sam's footsteps had led a few meters away from the car, before being lost on the rocky ground. It was quite a few days past new moon but still the moon combined with John's torch had failed miserably in shedding some light into the dark, forcing them to retreat without answers.

"What happened?" John had asked a few times in varying cadences to reach through his youngest son's withdrawal. Pleading, ordering, worried... and still Sammy refused to explain. He had stared out the window, his book clamped against his belly.

Dean had checked whether Sam was hurt. Twice. But there was no bump on the head, no broken bone, no dilated pupils. Not even a freaking scratch. Sammy was perfectly healthy. Except for the fact, that he was completely freaked out and not talking.

"Look Sammy, we're home", Dean repeated when the car turned onto the pavement in front of the house, pebbles crunching beneath the wheels. Sam looked out of the window, a defeated expression in his chubby face, and let his head sink against his chest.

oOoOo

John felt like he had aged a hundred years in one night.

Since he'd made the decision to introduce his oldest son into the world of hunting he'd thought things would be getting easier. Easier because he didn't have to lie to Dean any more. Sam, on the other hand, didn't really care where his father was going as long as he came back... yet. Sure, he asked with these huge, curious puppy eyes that looked like they wanted to take in the whole world with one stare.

"Where're you going, Daddy?"

It was easy to lie to Sammy. His little son's innocence was a convenient motivator for more lies. "I've work to do. I'll be back tomorrow. Listen to your older brother!" Little Sammy would nod, sometimes a little subdued, but his expression would lighten when John ruffled his hair. "Good boy!"

Until now, it had worked out just fine. Sammy had Dean and Dean had Sammy. They were all they needed and from time to time John felt almost excluded from their brotherhood. A tight bond not even a father could perturb.

But now?

It suddenly felt wrong to let Sam out of the loop. As if Dean and he were knowingly plotting against Sam.

On the other hand it'd have been just plain wrong to tell a six year old that the monsters under his bed were real, right? Right?

Suddenly, he wasn't so sure any more.

The door to Sam's room was left ajar and John stood quietly in front of it, listening to Dean's gentle coaxing Sam to get into his pjs.

"Come on, little smurf", Dean urged jokingly and for a second there John expected to hear Sammy's outburst "'m not little. Just not grown all up.... poophead!" Normally, John would have explained to his son in unmistakable terms what exactly he thought about his six year old son using words like poophead. At the moment, though, he'd pass off any word, even the f-word, for God's sake. After all Sam already knew about the letter F? John chuckled dryly but returned to his brooding. If only his son would tell them what had spooked him so much he refused to talk about it.

There was rustling behind the door and the bed frame was complaining with a loud squeak.

"Sammy?" More rustling. "Sammy, can you... what happened when Dad and I were gone?" Nothing. "Come on. Talk to me!"

Then, there was a little cough and Sammy finally whispered, his voice so small John had to lean his ear against the rift to understand. "Dean? Can you leave the light on?"

Something nasty started to squirm in John's stomach, his heart felt like cramping and he leaned his forehead against the cold, wooden door. Resisting the urge to get in the room and shake his little son until he'd spill the beans he took a few calming breaths. Yeah, what a John-way to do things, he thought.

"Something terrible has happened", Dean stated, when he finally came out and found his father sitting on the kitchen table. "He told me to leave the lights on." Every other parent in the world would have made an amused comment about it, but John only felt his heart falter for a second. Like it wanted to betray him because it knew more than John himself.

Dean was already wearing his own pjs, but he was wide awake, a hint of terror obscuring his normally casual manner.

"Don't worry about it, Dean. Sam's fine. You've heard him," John answered though he said it more to convince himself than anything else. "Go to bed."

"Daaad!"

"Dean!" His tone didn't allow any protest and with a satisfaction born of years of giving orders he watched his son leave the room, though not before throwing one last defying look at his father.

The oldest Winchester didn't find any sleep that night. The chair, though considerably uncomfortable, was getting warm beneath him, the backrest squeaked whenever he leaned against it. The dripping of the coffee machine the only noise accompanying him from one day to the next, then the wee morning hours when the darkness was hushed away to make place for the grey twilight of a new dawn.

The old clock radio placed on the greasy freezer was jumping with a loud click to 6am when John realized he hadn't even heard Sam leave his room for his nightly ritual of changing his sleeping place. Cautiously he snuck up the stairs to Dean's room, avoiding the one step that tended to crunch with old age and moulding wood and pushed open the door, only to find Dean sitting miserably in his pj's on his unused bed, waiting for his brother to show up.

Who didn't. Neither did he show up the next night. Or the one after.

It was like Sam had forgotten the safety he once craved in his brother's closeness.

oOoOo

"He's getting to old for this, anyway," John insisted when Dean expressed his concerns again on Monday morning, but Dean stubbornly shook his head.

"He's not." Dean replied and if he had been honest, he'd have added that he just missed his little brother's presence at night. Missed hearing the steady rhythm of his breathing and the little snores. Sometimes, his brother was talking at night and Dean would wake up and listen to Sammy's mumbling, just because he could.

"He's six, Dean! How often have I told him - and you, precisely - that he's too old for this. He can't hide under your cover every time he gets afraid of something. How do you think he'll handle our job and the truth when he's older?" He shook his head and with one last look indicated this conversation to be over. "It's for his best. Now get your brother! You're leaving for school in five, understood?"

"Yes Sir," Dean answered dutifully though his heart was weighing heavy in his breast.

After the fateful evening he waited all night for his brother to show up and crawl under his covers. Listening intently he expected the sound of naked feet on the decrepit carpet - that never came. Twice he snuck into his brother's room just to find it cold and foreign and filled with the sounds of his brother's fitful slumber. He thought about crawling under Sammy's covers but decided, he was too old for it.

Then, after the sleepless night, he waited for Sam to break like a porcelain doll. But Sammy seemed okay, though subdued and quiet. Lying down in front of the TV the little boy turned the pages of his book without actually reading. Alternating between not reading and not watching TV, he stared out of the window, looking for something only he saw.

When asked "Are you okay, son?" in his father's barking tone he nodded. "Yes Sir." Though his eyes told a different truth. They were sparkling with untold questions and thoughts and fears that made Dean want to hold him and never let go. The 10-year old could almost see the little wheels turning in his little brother's brain, thinking, thinking, thinking.

"Stop thinking so much. It makes your brain turn into jello. The blue one. And you don't like blue jello," Dean told him on Wednesday evening. The sun was setting already behind the trees that were losing their lively dress in reliable evenness, the weightless, yellowish leaves sailing in wide arks on the ground and covering the lawn with a colourful blanket.

As if Sam hadn't even heard him, he kept staring out of the window, following the leaves paths. A rusty swing was rocking in the chilly breeze of the small backyard. The sky had the murky colour of dishwater and geese were travelling in huge flocks over the neighbourhood, escaping the oncoming winter. His nose and the palm of his right hand pressed against the dirty glass he finally spoke.

"Dean, where do we go when we die?"

Utterly incapable of finding an inconspicuous answer to this uncanny question, Dean spluttered for a moment, searching for words that wouldn't scare Sam off or give him a false image of something so incomprehensibly terrible. Then, he made up his mind and finally answered: "Mom used to say, angels were watching over us. I guess, they also take care of us when we... leave."

"Oh," Sam replied somehow diminished, as if it wasn't the answer he had expected. "Do you think, we all have an angel watching over us or just nice people?"

Dean shrugged his shoulder. "Only nice people, I guess."

"What about the others? They die too, don't they?" Sam's questions were innocent enough and, at the same time, well articulated, like he had thought about them for a long time.

"Of course they do. They just don't have angels to help them go to heaven, you know."

Sam nodded and, for him, the talk was obviously over when he turned away from the window to settle down back on the floor.

But it didn't really surprise Dean when Sam started asking again next morning on their way to the school bus.

"Dean?"

"Hm?"

The wind blew icy this morning and the clouds were hanging deep, almost like they wanted to be touched. Dean hunched his shoulders and tightened his scarf around his neck.

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

A shiver ran down his spine and it had nothing to do with the November cold.

oOoOo

"He asked what?" John bellowed later that day when Dean told him about the incident. The boy flinched but didn't answer. He knew perfectly well his father had understood. The older man brushed his hand through his hair and stood up, took the coffee pot and poured some of the black liquid in his cup, not even realizing it was still half full. "What did you say?"

"No."

John raised an eyebrow and put the cup back on the table without drinking. "You told him 'No'? Just like that?"

Dean was confused. What the heck was he supposed to have answered? "You told me not to tell Sam about... things. That's what I did. "

A long weary sigh came from his father and closing his eyes he replied: "Yes, I know. He wouldn't understand. Let's keep it that way."

And so Dean did. Although Sam had obviously forgotten about it anyway and the next day everything was like nothing had happened. After school, Sam insisted on going to the library and Dean was only happy to oblige. Maybe, it had been just a phase. Every kid went through a phase like this, weren't they? It wasn't like Dean had a lot of experience with "phases". He was 10, for the love of God! Nevertheless he felt oddly reassured when he had to drag Sam out of the library almost one hour later, with the kid clutching five new books in his arms. His bulky winter jacket made it impossible to keep the books from slipping away and the bony librarian shot them a disapproving glare, when the books fell on the floor, their pages rustling.

Though Dean didn't notice. His eyes were on the covers, his mouth open and his mind twirling. Five books, Sam had chosen five books. And they were all ghost stories.

oOoOo

"You want me to read you a ghost story?" Dean asked on Thursday night with a sideways glance at the stack of library books on the night stand.

Sammy had already crawled in his bed, the blanket pulled up and only his curly hair was peeping out from behind the rim of the sheet, and now shook his head. The room was cold, the chilly winter air not detained by the windows which where in serious need of repairing. Dean could almost see his breath forming little wispy clouds of condensation in front of his lips.

"You need another afghan? It's cold in here." Another shake of the head and Sammy vanished entirely under the covers, insinuating in unmistakable terms that he wanted to sleep. It had turned into a new nightly ritual. Dean tucking Sam in, leaving the small light on before going to bed himself. And even though it seemed to please his father, Dean was worried. Worried and a little bit offended.

But Sam was safe and sound, so Dean pushed his worries away, left the room and hurried to his own bed. Downstairs the TV was running and a weak beam of light shone through the gap of the door, which Dean had left ajar. Just for safety of course. It's not like he was afraid of darkness. After all, monsters didn't really need darkness to hide. He knew that and even though he was only ten, he also was well aware of the fact, that being in the light didn't inevitably mean you were safe. At all.

Of course, these thoughts weren't helpful when one was trying to sleep. Aside from the sounds of the old house the wind howled angrily outside his window, rattled the glass in its rotting frames and Dean couldn't avoid a snigger when he imagined a horde of pigs trying to puff away the house. Some time after midnight, rain began to drum against the window, waking up Dean who had managed to fall into a slight slumber only minutes ago. With a silent gasp he was wide awake, searching with all his might for the cause of his sudden alertness. The steady beat of the rain harassed his hearing and at first he was tempted to lie back down. The warmth of his bed was comfy and compelling and his eye lids were getting heavy again, when a thin voice reached his ear. A whimper, barely loud enough to be caught over the stormy turmoil. "Go away!"

Within seconds Dean was out of the bed, didn't even feel the frosty floor on the soles of his feet. Downstairs the TV was still running and for just a second he thought about calling for his dad. But before he could finish the thought he already threw the door open and stumbled into his brother's room. Like he was colliding with a brick wall the temperature in it was somewhere close to freezing point and in an instant Dean felt the coldness seeping through his flimsy clothes and right into his bones. His teeth chattering he switched on the bright light and felt immediately calmer when he found Sam lying in his bed, though tossing and turning with an untold nightmare. Just a simple nightmare. Dean could deal with a nightmare. The only thing disturbing the scene was the window. It was wide open.

The frumpish curtains were twitching and dancing ecstatically through the air, winding and curling like hair flying behind a running girl. Dean had to lean against the wind to get to the window and he made sure it was safely closed before he turned back to Sam's bed to put a hand on his brother's forehead, which was scrunched up like, in even in sleep, he was thinking really hard about something. Dean's hand had barely made contact with his brother's skin, when he went slack, his body relaxing into the mattress. Careful not to wake him up, Dean pulled back the blanket that had almost fallen off the bed with all the kicking and struggling and Sam sighed quietly, snuggling deeper into the pillow.

With one last look at the peaceful imagery Dean switched off the light and went back to bed, though it took some time to go back to sleep... again.

oOoOo

"So", Dean said, looking forward to the weekend. For a moment he observed his little brother's attempts to get his arm into the sleeve of his jacket. As rumpled as it was, he'd need another hour before he managed to get his jacket on. Hiding a grin behind the collar of his own coat Dean grabbed for the cuff and held the sleeve horizontally to give Sam easier access. "You wanna go to the library to get some books for the weekend?"

Sam shook his head and concentrated on wiggling his fingers into his mitten, his tongue between his lips in an intensity only a six-year old facing a challenge could administer.

"Okay, then home it is."

When Sam was finished, he grabbed Dean's hand and they were already halfway out of the school when a voice called his name.

"Dean? Dean Kubrick!"

Mrs. Banister approached, one of Sam's teachers, and Dean gulped. She didn't look like she wanted to wink them goodbye and it wasn't likely she wanted to talk about Sam's bad grades either since he didn't even get any grades yet. So Dean threw a puzzled look at the boy next to him and waited.

She was tall, one of those grown-ups that made children crane their necks to meet their gaze. High heels clicking on the sandy linoleum she came closer and, at least, had the decency to keep a distance of a few feet as not to look too intimidating. Through the woollen mitten Dean could feel his brother's fingers curl around his own and he squeezed back, now almost afraid of what she possibly had to say.

"Dean," she began and Dean decided, he didn't like her tone. "Please, tell your father that I want a word with him?" She paused, waiting for his response. When none came: "Could you do that for me? I tried his phone a few times already but he doesn't answer my calls."

"What did Sammy do?" Dean asked, trying to hide his nervousness, and Sam's grip was getting even firmer.

"Oh no." She brushed a strand of her hair out of her face and tried to give him a reassuring smile. It didn't work. "Sam didn't do anything wrong. Just tell your father I will contact him again this afternoon." After a short pause she added: "I might come for a visit, as a matter of fact."

With these words she turned and Dean ushered Sammy out of the building, stepping into the darkening afternoon that carried the smell of snow. The wind was biting, creeping under their layers of clothes and Dean was relieved when they reached their home half an hour later though he was not looking forward to having to explain to his father, that one of Sam's teachers wanted to pay him a visit.

Rule number one after Dean's introduction into his father's "job" had been: Keep a low profile. And getting house calls from teachers definitely didn't count as keeping a low profile.

"What did she say, exactly?" His father wanted to know when he had sent Sammy into his room to do his homework and Dean stayed behind, sat on one of the kitchen chairs and fought against the desire to scramble under the table. It wasn't his fault the teacher wanted to talk with Dad, now was it?

"Nothing. Just, that she wanted to talk to you," he replied truthfully, adding a firm "Sir", just for good measure.

His father ran a hand over his tired face and nodded. "It's fine. I'll deal with it." Then: "Go to your room."

His head hanging he trotted upstairs, not really keen on babysitting Sam for the rest of the afternoon but it wasn't like he had much of a choice. Maybe he'd ask his father if he was allowed to watch some TV later. Or maybe...

Only seconds before he reached his room a sound made change his direction. The sound of talking came out of Sam's room and Dean tiptoed closer to understand what he was saying.

"That's not true!", Sammy insisted on something, sulking. "Dean told me."

Silence.

"No, you're bad. Because bad people don't go to heaven."

After that the silence was back and only when Dean could hear the rustling of pages he entered.

"Hey Sammy!" His little brother was lying prostrate on his made bed, skimming through one of his ghost books. "Whatcha doing?"

"Reading," Sammy answered distractedly and didn't move aside when Dean sat down on the edge of the mattress.

"I see that, Dumbo."

Colourful images of two little kids in a forest were visible in the book and Sam stared at them.

"Is it good? The book?"

"Don't know. I'm not reading it. I just wanna look at the pictures."

"Why?"

The bed bounced when Sam shrugged his shoulders but it went absolutely still again when Dean asked: "Who were you talking to, Sammy?"

Dean could have sworn Sammy was making his "caught with his hand in the cookie jar" grimace but his unruly mop of hair was hiding it.

"I wasn't." Sammy finally replied, still staring at the picture. "I was reading."

"I heard you talking, Sammy," Dean tried again but Sammy's answer was interrupted by the ringing of the door bell. From below Dean could hear the pounding of his father's steps, then the voice of Mrs. Banister.

It was hard to understand the spoken words and so he ventured back to the door, curious enough to forget Sammy's weird behaviour for the time being. After one last glance at the boy he moved back into the hallway, settled down on the first step and concentrated on breathing without making any sound.

Mrs. Banister was just doing some formal introductions when his father cut off her vivid speech.

"Mrs. Banner..."

"Banister. But please, call me Jamie."

"Fine! Mrs. Banister. I appreciate your coming to my house on a late Friday afternoon..." Dean suppressed a chuckle. It really didn't sound as if his father appreciated anything this woman had to offer. "But I really am not in the mood for small talk. Is there anything you wanted to tell me about my son?"

"Oh... yes!" Dean imagined the woman was arranging her hair in a rather nervous way, but she still wasn't intimidated enough to run away... fast. "I'm your son's teacher, Mr. Kubrick, and..." She cleared her throat. "I observed some really worrying patterns in his behaviour. I just wanted to make sure, everything is fine with Sam."

"With all due respect, Mrs. Banister, but I can take care of my boys. I don't need some overenthusiastic teacher to tell me how my boys are behaving. They might be a little fierce from time to time, but they're boys. It's what boys do."

"Mr. Kubrick, I really didn't mean to..."

"Oh, I really think you did. Now would you please excuse ..." His father's voice stopped abruptly and Dean could only guess that the cause was something Mrs. Banister had done or produced out of her bag.

"What is this?"

"Your son, Sam, made this this morning when the children were supposed to draw something. Something they do on the weekends with their parents." The teachers voice, though still slightly on edge and not just a little shaky, was now reproachful and almost grave. "Look, Mr. Kubrick. I care about my students and Sam is an exceptional little boy. He's smart and kind and I'd hate to see him parted from his brother, if you get my point." Like a bitter smell the words hung in the air and Dean could now hear his heart beat a swift gallop, his ears almost over sensitive for any sound that came from downstairs.

"Out!" John Winchester spit and the single word made Dean's hands sweaty. Seconds later a door was closed with a loud bang and Dean, unable to move, stayed glued to the cold floor, the wood hard against his bottom, until his father appeared on the lower landing place.

"Dean, haven't I told you to get into your room?"

Even the "I'm sorry, Sir" refused to cross his lips. Instead, Dean did as he was told and vanished into his room, closing the door behind and breathing heavily, as if he'd just run a few miles. And not for the first time he cursed the fact, that he had a room for himself to be sent to.

Letting himself fall down onto the bed he pressed his pillow over his ear, trying to drown the sounds of his fathers yells, drumming the lie into his little brother's head, that there was no such thing as monsters.

oOoOo

John had done a lot of things in his life he wasn't proud of and he often had to make decisions he'd have changed if only he had the chance but never had he felt as guilty as he had this night when he denied his youngest son the very knowledge that kept him going.

If he only told these lies to keep his son safe, why did it feel like he betrayal?

His knees felt shakier than this one time, when he'd fought a freaking Glawackus with his camping cutlery. Feeling drained and more than spooked he staggered back into the kitchen to sink down on the chair, a fleeting glance at the empty coffee machine. It was empty, about as empty as he was feeling and with a tired frown, he ran his hands over his face and let it drop against his warm palms.

His son's eyes had looked up at him, full of hurt and confusion but everything John could think about was the fucking picture he'd drawn. What a stupid thing to do!

The paper still lay on the table and he reached for it, unfolding the crinkly material until his gaze fell on the image of something that would have been an adoring memorabilia to be put on the fridge if it wasn't for the addition of a strange girl standing next to his little son. She had lovely blond hair and a sad face, her mouth a bizarre caricature of a topsy-turvy smile. In her hand she held the crude sketch of a knife and her feet were standing in a pool of blood red crayon.

He bit is lip, pressed his palms against his temples to keep the preceding pain away.

Everything Sam had wanted was attention, someone to tell him everything would be okay and a small part of John wanted to give just that. But the rational part of his brain saw the Child Services and people in dark suits, trying to take him away. That was impossible, it just couldn't happen. Wouldn't happen.

He'd have to take better care. Maybe it was for the best if he just left town tomorrow, never look back and run away from the danger that, this time, didn't originate from the supernatural but from some fussy lady in high-heels.

His body started moving towards the coffee pot and his movements were almost mechanical. Add water, four spoonfuls of coffee, then the flip of the switch. Seconds later, the fizzling of the heating water tank began and the smell of coffee wafted through the room.

With a night of brooding ahead he wanted to be prepared and settled on the couch in the living room, a map of Wyoming spread in front of him and his mind distracted by worries and the look of his son's face when he lied to him.

Following the main road out of town with his index finger he searched for the next big town that was far enough to guarantee them an absolute anonymity but close enough to avoid a needless waste of gas.

What if he was overreacting? Maybe, things would sort themselves out sooner or later, preferably sooner. He had lectured Sammy, hadn't he? Had told him loud and clear what he thought of his childish and irrational behaviour. Because it was childish and irrational. How had Sam gotten the idea of this picture? It wasn't like John had taken him somewhere it was possible to encounter a ghost. Whenever he was out doing his job, he'd leave Sam and Dean behind. In safety.

Except - last week he had taken him along.

His head jerked up, his forehead crinkling when he recalled everything that had led to his son's odd change of moods. Something that'd give him a clue. But there was nothing. Only his son's little temper tantrum.

Unfortunately all this thinking made him dizzy and he closed his eyes to rest for a while. When he opened them again, the short rest had turned into a full blown REM sleep and he remembered dreaming something about Mary and blond hair and a fire that froze his fingertips when he tried to reach for it. That's when he realized, it really was freaking cold.

The floor lamp with the ridiculous flower-patterned shade flickered and the bulb hissed angrily before it exploded, followed by the distinctive smell of burned cables. John still held the half-full coffee cup in his hands, which had long turned cold and he put it back on the table.

His senses on full alert he fumbled for the shotgun – the one he kept stashed well hidden behind the couch – while the temperature around him toppled at least a few grades more. Slowly, his eyes registered shapes in the darkness; the TV, the small table, the ridiculous meadows and farmhouse pictures on the wall.

And then he found himself confronted with the unearthly glowing ghost of a blond child. The girl, she couldn't have been much older than seven or eight, stared at him with blatant hatred, her eyes twinkling as if she were alive. Only for a second that was his thought exactly, until her apparition blinked in and out of existence, her outlines distorted like the result of bad transmission.

Without thinking he pulled the trigger, shattering the silence and she vanished.

Going in circles he found her re-materializing again seconds later, standing on the third step of the stairs and climbing the way up like a flip-book - as if someone took pictures of her standing still one every single step.

"You don't deserve him! You should have helped him. You should have helped ME!" She said bitterly and popped out of existence. The light in the hallway flickered on again and John could hear the pounding footsteps of Dean, who appeared on top of the stair staring down at him in terror.

"Dad? What happened?"

"Get Sammy!" John said, ignoring Dean's question, and started to secure the windows with salt lines. He really should have done this before he lamented and wanted to kick himself really hard for being so stupid.

The feeling rose exponentially when Dean's panicked voice echoed back to him.

"Dad! Sammy's gone! He's just gone!"

Things were spiralling downwards and there was only one person to blame. Himself.

oOoOo

The tears had long dried on his face. And the ones that had not now were frozen against his skin. A lonely drop still glistened in the middle of his right cheek like a little diamond. He could feel it stinging.

His feet stumbled over the uneven ground and a hiccup tore from between his lips, hurting his shoulders that had long ago started to hurt with the weight of the shovel to big for his small build. It'd have to end now. He had read books about ghosts and they all had a happy ending. On the other hand, the ghosts in the books hadn't been as angry as she had gotten when he told her, that she wasn't real.

He couldn't help her because she wasn't real. His father had said so and Sammy knew, his father was always right.

So, how come she was still here?

Torn between anxiety for letting her down and guilt for just running away from home he threw a glance behind, staring at the peaceful village nested in a small valley where only a few scattered lights were still on. Their house was already distant enough to be nothing more but a misshapen shape of grey and he yearned to be back in his room, in the warmth of his bed, with the safety of his brother's closeness.

He bit his lips again to keep them from trembling and picked up his pace, his eyes on the pavement that mirrored the bright rays of the moon.

The night was strangely clear and there was no wind, just a wintry cold and a clear sky with millions of twinkling stars keeping him company.

She wasn't walking next to him, just appeared beside him every few feet, as if she was waiting on a train station and Sam's train was passing by again and again and again.

"Is it far?"

"No." she answered, pointing into the north, where the mountains were visible during the day.

"Okay."

He walked on, the shovel painfully digging into his shoulder and he moved it from the right to the left side. Not long and he lost the feeling in his fingers. The sensitive skin on his lips felt chapped and foreign as if it didn't belong to his face any more.

"Is it far?" He asked again and she shook her head, like the hundred times before.

"No, it's not. Just keep walking."

"You're lying!"

He stopped, breathing deeply, but the air made his chest all achy and he coughed, wishing himself once more back into his bed.

"I don't lie!" she replied reproachful. "You're lying! You said you wanted to help. But you don't. Nobody wants to help."

"I should have told Dean. He'd know what to do."

Sammy felt dumb and really, really lonely. His feet didn't ache any more. They were probably frozen, too.

"You did! And he told you I don't exist, didn't he?" She put her hands against her hips, looking ridiculously like a real girl, a living one. One who was angry because a boy from her class had stolen her Hello Kitty pencil case. "I just don't want to be alone any more." She hiccupped.

"Where's the angel that's supposed to help you?" Sammy asked with a pout and finally moved on, leaving the road behind to proceed cross country. "Every good person has an angel to take him home. Dean told me."

"He's coming," she whispered after a pause, smiling mysteriously. "My angel's almost here."

He remembered the place exactly as if he'd only just left it. The three bushes hiding the secret well, two feet deep, with the glinting bones, shining like ebony in the moon light. He shivered, staring down at the remains. "Are you cold?" he asked and took a moment to gather his strength before kneeling down next to the bizarre formation. Sam wriggled out of his gloves and carefully traced a greyish bone with his finger. "Do you feel it?"

She shook her head and watched him closely when he sat down and pressed his knees against his chest.

"No, I don't feel any more."

"It must be strange, being dead," he thought aloud and tilted his head to the side.

"I don't remember being alive any more. So it's not bad, I think."

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged her shoulder and walked towards him, almost as if she were alive again. But when she sat next to him, she radiated a coldness that had nothing to do with the winter.

After a few minutes of silence he whispered "What do I do now?"

"They dug a hole in your books. The people dug a hole and then the ghost is in peace. That's what the book said."

"I really don't think this is going to work."

She pulled a face, seized him with an angry stare and said: "You said you'd help. You promised."

"I know."

He started digging.

oOoOo

They found him when the first greyish light filtered from the east.

The wind had died down hours ago, the sky a sharp dark blue and the stars twinkling like they were little diamonds pinned against a canopy of silk.

John's mind was racing, his eyes flying over the landscape next to the car. One curve looked like the next and it didn't help matters that his oldest son sat in the passenger seat, yelling every five minutes that "this is the place, I know it", when it turned out it wasn't.

He stopped the car, more out of desperation than anything else, and jumped out, breathing the fresh air so deep it hurt in his lungs. His little boy was out here, somewhere, and if he hadn't been so stupid and ignorant, this wouldn't have happened.

"Sammy," he whispered, careful not to let Dean hear his grief. "I'm sorry."

"Dad, is this the place?" Dean looked around hopefully. "Yeah, this could be it." He added as an afterthought and started to walk.

The bushes were rare in this area and the ground in front of them was hard and spiked with rocks. A few sad looking trees, more dead than alive, were standing their grounds, facing the unfriendly living conditions like soldiers in an invisible war.

It was cold. Too cold for a little boy to spend the night outside. And with every passing second that went by, John's hopes were growing dimmer and dimmer until his mind seemed to shut down. He had no idea, how long he had been standing next to his car, unmoving and in some kind of trance, when someone started to pull the sleeve of his parka.

"Dad?"

Words had long lost their value and he just looked down into the tired face of his son. And then, he spotted something that alerted his senses and sent adrenaline through his veins so fast he stumbled.

There, no more than a stone's throw away from the place, he saw the girl, the ghost, the thing that had his son. Her dress was dancing in a non-existent wind, her hair haloed around her face and he started to run. Faster than his mind was grasping the fact, that he had no weapon. It lay back in the car.

The girl didn't move, just stood there until her arm pointed towards a spot somewhere next to her. From the distance he wasn't sure about her facial expression. Maybe it was an irrational hope that held his sanity in his grasp but he almost thought she looked urgent.

He staggered but didn't fall, ran to a group of bushes hiding a well, that had been recently been dug in.

And before he could understand what he was seeing he yelled back to Dean, whom he had outrun at some point, to get some blankets.

Sammy was sitting upright, his back pressed against the wall of the little grave he had dug. The shovel lay abandoned next to him and at his feet lay the tiny bones of a child's carcass, skull and spine and ribs protruding obscenely from the frozen earth. His eyes were closed, his lips as colourless as his cheeks. His bangs were showing from under his cap and he had wrapped his arms around his legs to keep the warmth.

"Sammy!"

John knelt down, afraid to touch him. When he did, he recoiled, landing butt first in the crumbly soil. His son was cold as the rock he was leaning against. So cold. His eyelashes lay dark against his blueish skin. Chapped lips were parted and blew little puffs of clouds into the dingy morning light.

Air! John let out a small yell of part triumph, part terror. Sam was breathing and John leaned down, held his ear against his sons face and there it was again, the warm rush of air from his mouth.

"Come on, kiddo!" John said and finally managed to gather his remaining sense of reality when he lifted his head to stare directly into the face of the ghost. Her eyes were brimming with tears. Since when could the eyes of a ghost be brimming with tears?

It didn't matter, nothing mattered except to get Sam help.

"I didn't mean to," she said miserably, her voice as insubstantial as her whole apparition.

He didn't reply, just hoisted his son into his arms, sprinting back to the car and meeting Dean again halfway with so many blankets the ten-year-old was staggering under its weight.

oOoOo

The drive to the hospital was the longest he had ever accomplished. At least that's how it felt. His eyes were probably more at the back seat of his car, where Dean was cradling his little brother's unmoving form in his lap, than on the street. How he managed to get back to the city without hitting every street lamp and mailbox was a miracle and he couldn't recall any other car on the empty road.

"Daddy? He's not shaking", Dean murmured at some point and John's heart plummeted into his stomach. "That means he's not cold, right?"

Of course Sam was cold and Dean must have known because he held his hand against his brother's forehead. But somehow the meaning of this whole, stupid mess seemed to slip their brains, like they were frozen too.

The arrival in the ER was blurry, too bright and chaotic. John remembered someone trying to take Sammy from his arms but he hollered incoherently, fighting the medics until he regained enough clarity to let go.

That was millenniums ago.

The wait was endless, the seconds ticking so slowly he was tempted to give the clock on the wall a systematic do-over. But his hand was busy stroking Deans back, who had fallen asleep only minutes ago but the sudden tensing of John's body woke him up immediately.

"Sammy?" he mumbled sleepily but John only had eyes for the doctor who had entered the sterile waiting room, motioning to him to follow.

With Dean next to him, John did and they passed numerous rooms and doors until they entered a hallway that looked like it was decorated with children's book instead of wallpaper.

Butterflies and trees were decorating yellow, friendly walls and on small, knee-high tables lay books and building blocks and little plastic puzzles that were probably of no use any more because parts were long gone missing.

The doctor had started to talk after a few minutes and John tried to concentrate on the words. Words like "hypothermia" and "slowed breathing and heart rate" and "cyanosis" and "weak pulse". But the only words that finally managed to fight through the fog was the doctor's "Your son is going to be fine".

"Thank you", John croaked, when they entered a brightly lit room with two beds of which only one was vacated.

Sammy's skin wasn't blue any more. More like rosy. His cheeks glowing red with a rising fever and when John cupped his calloused hand around his son's cheek it felt hot to the touch. His son's breath rattled in his chest and he shivered slightly.

"He's cold," Dean declared and ran to the unused bed to snag the blanket, which he spread over his little brother with so much care that John felt a thick clog in his throat. There must have been something he had done right. Something that had made his oldest son stronger than even himself.

His own strength was waning and the struggle and the fear of the last night caught up fast. His last conscious awareness was Dean, climbing into his brother's bed to lie down next to him, before his own eyes slid shut.

oOoOo

Child Services was having a field day, especially after Mrs. do-all-good "accidently" reported about a certain picture that Sammy had drawn. John had no choice but to pack his bags and steal off quietly, even though their rent had been paid for another month. Still, when he finally hit the road again, Dean and Sam asleep on the back seat, he knew it was the right thing to do.

He intentionally had chosen a Monday night to run. The roads were abandoned, the majority of the windows dark and empty.

Sam coughed and for a moment, just for a fleeting moment, John felt guilty for taking Sam so soon, when he hadn't yet recovered entirely.

But better a cold than a foster family.

He halted on the same spot as a few days earlier, grabbed a tank of gas, some salt and a few matches and with the help of a torch found the spot between the bushes pretty fast.

The little girl appeared soon after his arrival and he thought, he really should have taken the shot gun, until she spoke.

"He wanted to help me," she whispered and John nodded.

"He wanted to help but he didn't know how." John nodded again, stared at the match in his hand that only needed to be dropped to end the girl's misery.

"I really thought he was the angel that would help me," she sighed and her voice sounded far away and hollow. John knew what'd become of her if he didn't end what he was here for.

"You know what? I really think he was," he answered and let go.


End file.
